Chapter One
ADAM
The puck ricochets off the boards and lands cleanly on my stick. Muscle memory snaps into place. I shift my weight, knees bent, blades biting into the ice as I launch into a glide.
Cold air pinches my skin, but I welcome the familiar burn.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Pete near the slot, wide open, stick ready. Steadying my breath, I snap a crisp pass, heading exactly where it should, and watch as the puck slides smoothly across the zone.
He lines up and—
A loud ringtone pierces the air, and his head jerks upward, the puck skidding past him, into the boards behind.
“Hey,” I shout at the guys, panting. “We said no phones.”
Pete shrugs and looks around as the ringtone continues, shrill and insistent.
Ben skates off the goal line, heading for the bench. “Waiting for a court ruling on an injunction. It’s my last hope.”
Then an unsettling, unsynchronized buzz swells from the bench where we all left our phones. All the screens light up. This can’t be good.
“Shit,” Ben spits out, brows drawn together.
I race to grab mine. If he’s worried, it’s not just a bad verdict. A sense of dread twists my insides as I yank off my gloves, grab my phone, and swipe it open. The screen floods with alerts. News apps, messages, calls from my office, and my parents.
My lungs seize at the first headline, my knees suddenly weak.
Explosion reported this morning at the Rawlings headquarters…
Update: 20 minutes ago…
Smoke visible…
Details unknown…
The world closes in on me, and my ears start ringing.
My helmet clatters on the tile floor as I stumble through the locker room door, yanking at my gear, tearing the Velcro from the shin guards. By the time the guys follow me in, I’m already out of my skates and slamming into my sneakers.
I take off before I can think.
The heavy steel door of the rink thunders closed over someone’s shouts. It might be Pete, but I’m already halfway through the tunnel bay.
I cut left, out of the red loading dock entrance, onto the sidewalk packed with people. No one’s moving, every gaze pointing upward. The fact that the Rawlings headquarters is about twenty-five blocks away, and the smoke rising above the skyline is visible from the Chelsea Piers, twists that knot behind my ribs tighter.
My insides feel hollowed out.
One thing I know for sure: my best friend’s safe, in Maine. But his sister’s not. The woman has never missed a workday in her life.
“No…” The sound scrapes out of me, and I sprint toward the distant building. My fingers fumble with the lock screen on my phone. Dialing again and again. Every unanswered call spurs the speed at which my feet hit the ground.
The thought of Jackie being in that tall glass building, hurt or trapped, floods my veins with a cold panic that makes my head spin. Every muscle in my body screams in agony.
I can’t slow down. I need to get to her.
My breath starts to hitch, but I push harder, shoving stunned pedestrians aside.
Three blocks to go, but the streets are at a standstill. Horns blare. People spill out of their cars to find out what’s going on, unease brewing in their tense murmurs.
